


Black Circles

by Arthurs_Logbook



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, Swearing, precious beans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arthurs_Logbook/pseuds/Arthurs_Logbook
Summary: While cooking alongside Mr. Pearson after losing at a game of Five Finger Fillet against Sean, John Marston finds himself looking for an escape just to not have to put up with Pearson’s endless nagging, bickering, and critique. Gladly, he does find a way out and just so happens to stumble upon the smallest sliver of peace in the confines of Dutch Van der Linde’s camp.





	1. Drifter

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by a youtube video called “RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 Ambient Music & Ambience - Nap at the camp (RDR2 Soundtrack | OST). The whole feel of the hour-long video somehow inspired this, so I suggest listening to that while you read this for your own good haha ^^ Here’s the link if interested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xvinpMU7sM

“Kieran! Hey, after your done with feeding the horses, fetch me that one big crate of canned food right behind Arthur’s tent, will ya? It’s the least you could do.”

John Marston’s head jolted up when Mr. Pearson practically shouted in his ear, the gang’s cook only standing a foot to his left as, for once, he was helping prepare dinner after losing in Five Finger Fillet against Sean. “Damn, Pearson, the hell did I do to you? ‘Bout cut my hand off!” John barked through a smug smile, gaining a chuckle from the man before proceeding to slide the wet, glistening butcher’s knife through a thick chunk of seasoned meat.

Looking up, Kieran looked ten times as spooked, those big sacks of horse feed only putting more weight on his shoulders than he needed. It was clear that he didn’t want to, and that became even more evident when his lips parted, “oh, um, I’m sorry, Mr. Pearson and Mr. Marston, but it’s going to be a while until I can, I just started and-”

Just when Mr. Pearson was about to interrupt the poor guy, John blurted, “I can do it.”

The two opposing men blinked, their puzzled gazes shifting straight onto Marston who simply swapped stares in between the two. Only several seconds passed before Kieran tore the silence with a quick, “Thank you, John,” parting off without the mere chance of being stopped by either of them.

Pearson’s gaze honed sharp, looking Marston up and down before returning attention back on his work.

“Why do I have a feeling that you’re tryna get out of doing this chore, Mr. Marston?” The cook questioned, his voice stern but his face giving it away that he didn’t care.

“Because that’s _exactly_ what I’m trying to do, Mr. Pearson.”

The man gave a hearty laugh before going back to preparing dinner, swatting John off as if he were a nagging fly in his ear. Gladly, Marston buzzed off.

To be frankly honest with himself, not only did he want to get away from listening to the cook’s blabbering advice on how to perfectly formulate a stew better than a king’s while constantly telling him that he did something wrong, John was curious to know what Arthur was up to. Sometimes a little talk with Arthur helped brighten his mood and assisted him to stick it through the remainder of the day.

Nearing Arthur’s area in a soft saunter, John keenly scratched the scruff embedded around the gnarled scars marking up the right side of his cheek, wondering what Arthur would say to him time. He hoped it’d be more than a fellow hello, but he couldn’t deny to himself that there was a swelling jumble of eagerness nested deep in his stomach that wanted more than a plain hello.

Without realizing he had been smirking, the tension in his lips quickly faded when the man he had been looking for was nowhere in sight around the comforts of his tent.

John muttered something inaudible deep beneath a tired exhale, a spread of disappointment washing through his body before he picked his feet back up. Usually, Arthur would be sat on his cot, sketching away, but this time he and his journal were nowhere to be found.

Rounding the corner of the camp member’s tent to retrieve the crate that Mr. Pearson requested, it felt as if a flaming dart struck the bullseye of his chest.

There against the damned wooden crate was Arthur planted on the earth’s plush, green surface, head dipped, hanging soft. The elder was still, one leg sprawled to the side and the other loosely crunched up to his chest, his weathered hands folded sloppily in his lap. Not a peep creaked from the being, not even the slightest of a snore. He was as silent as the grave.

John’s mouth hung open lightly, struck still in time from realizing how peaceful, warm, and soft the scene splayed out before him. From the soft rustle of leaves brushing up against one another from the towering forests’ trees hugging the camp to the dim shadows cast over the man’s body, it was all so-..so mesmerizing? It looked like a painting in his eyes, a professional painting that could be seen in a rich gallery.

Arthur’s chest heavily rose as he breathed in, stirring his hat to tip up slightly before falling back down on the bridge of his nose, a repeating cycle that had Marston staring like a hawk. He couldn’t move his eyes away even if he wanted to, they were glued transfixed.

Shaking his head swiftly, John pressed the tips of his fingers against the creases in his own eyes, rubbing them hard as he pondered.

“ _Why am I staring so hard..? What’s gotten over me? What are you doing, Marston? Just staring at Arthur having a nap, you’re a goddamn creep. What if you woke up and found him just watching you? How would you like_ th _-_ ,” John thought in his silence of his head, coming to a realization that he wouldn’t mind that…

He wouldn’t mind that at all.

He’d definitely make it out to seem like he did in fact mind, but deep down he would know that he didn’t.

Maybe.. Arthur wouldn’t mind either.

Slinking close, but staying cautious, John stepped alongside the older one. He contained his breathing to faint, short huffs, not wanting to make a sound too loud that could possibly agitate the other. Bending down, John plopped in the silky blanket of grass that surrounded themselves, arms resting at his side with legs bent loose before himself.

He had to sit and rest for just a moment, even if it was a minute. This was peaceful, tranquil, and pacifying.

Why did he have to sit right next to the sleeping fool? He wasn’t sure. It just.. Felt right, he guessed.

He couldn’t lie, he was liking this a lot. It was a lot different than the bickering and joking that usually tied the camp together, that was for sure. For once, he found a sliver of peace sat perfectly hidden right within the camp’s confines.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get this again.

While sitting alongside Arthur Morgan, John still couldn’t help but stare only at his face, analyzing everything. Being so close to the sleeping man, he couldn’t help but pick up on the smallest of things. Small things like the way Arthur breathed thickly into the black bandana that covered half of his face, or the way his skin twitched in response to a pestering bug. Although, there was something that wasn’t so small that he promptly caught onto the second he was set in the grass.

The smell.

Taking a deep breath, John’s throat caught onto the thick, rich presence of whiskey and the faint, nipping scent of graphite. He kind of liked that mixture, it was a pleasant twist of smells that matched Arthur oh so perfectly.

Arthur must’ve had a bottle while drawing, and happened to knock out in such a strange and uncomfortable spot.

Suddenly, a small spark of eagerness ignited back into John Marston, causing him to scoot a little closer. Their shoulders bumping by accident. He winced, but nothing happened.

“ _This is so comfortable. No one is around to make fun of me, but god_.. _If he wakes up I’m in deep shit,_ ” John thought to himself once more. Slow, his eyes drifted downwards to the other’s folded hands spewed in his lap, resting on top of something square, flat, and bound with old leather.

Marston’s inner thoughts electrocuted with curiosity, eyes flashing up to see if that pair of emerald green orbs were staring right back at him. They weren’t, of course. They were laid shut, long lashes still under the darkness and warmth of his signature hat. He gulped, gazing back down at the leather book Arthur had the heels of his palms resting on.

It was rare for Arthur to offer or allow anyone to have a gander at his artwork, that was unless you were Hosea who constantly wanted to know what was the next thing he drew. Unfortunately, but somewhat fortunately, John wasn’t Hosea. John was John, and John hadn’t seen a singular line drawn from the man. Not even a dot.

Before he knew it himself, Marston found his gross, bandaged hand gradually twisting close to the guarded journal, attentive to not touch the man directly as if he were made of fire. Slipping his index and middle finger on the cover and his thumb pinching on the back, he made sure to look back up at Arthur’s face, knowing full well not to test his limits. Yet then again, he really was testing his limits in the long run.

Marston gave a miniature tug at the book, pupils dilating fast when he heard a grunt muster out from the back of the other’s throat. He swallowed hard, pausing when he felt the journal dip back, Arthur’s rough, calloused hands pawing down on it sloppily. His heart was racing, eager but terribly anxious about waking him up. He hadn’t been this anxious ever since the first few weeks he spent in the Van der Linde gang.

He wasn’t just afraid of being caught and humiliated by Arthur (which was really out of Arthur’s character anyway) for being so nosey, but too afraid of ruining the peace. He was happily quiet and Arthur was happily quiet, nothing else but nature creating the serene ambiance around themselves.

Then, Marston flat out went for it, prying the journal completely out before dropping it onto his own lap, treating it as if it were freshly hot coals. All that was heard from Morgan though was a stifled sniff, his head gentling swaying back in forth for a short moment before easing back into the tender, calm peace.

A small grin formulated along John’s pale lips, eyes shuttering as he captured the moment forever in his head.

Returning back to being composed and unruffled by the hustle just to obtain the book, the younger of the two swiftly opened up to the first page. He then got comfy, positioning the journal’s leather outside to be propped against his knees while his chest being a support beam, holding it secure as John didn’t want to smudge even the finest of dot. He couldn’t afford getting caught at this point, he’s gone way too far. Even he understood that.

Minutes suddenly shot by like a whizzing bullet as John inspected every page, a smug grin staying on his face the whole damn time. Each sketch, even if it was barely understandable was mystical and enchanting, pulling John close with immense interest.

From deer to wolves, eagles to coyotes, beautiful ladies to drunken old men, Dutch’s face to Micah’s, each drawing or sketch had its own charm, even if it were a nasty picture of Micah. John was sure as hell Arthur caught his likeness though.

Nearing closer to the end of the journal, his breath hitched sharp at the most recent page. That familiar feeling of a dart panging into his chest hit once more.

He really couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He was flabbergasted out from thinking straight.

The page was filled with detailed, fully shaded and perfected drawings of John Marston, himself. Well, Arthur made him look good, contrary to his real-life beliefs of himself.

Confused on why someone would do this, especially Arthur, his eyes narrowed down to a piercing squint, scanning the whole page of it’s worth.

Some pictures were of John doing daily chores around the campsite, others were him having a smoke or lathering gun oil across his most treasured weapons. Majority of them though were mere studies of his slanted posture, his weight tipping more on one side than the other. Nevertheless though, what made John the most intrigued was a headshot of him in the center of the page, smiling, framed by dark circles that had been drawn multiple times.

Off to the other side of the page, his hawk eyes caught ahold of a small note Arthur had written. It read,

* * *

 

_“Noticed John Marston a lot more today than I ever have at the camp. Maybe he’s slacking outside of camp, I don’t know. I also don’t know why drawing him feels so good. I guess I should talk to him more, he’s honestly someone I need right now in life.”_

 

* * *

 

Overwhelmed by a pang of warmth rippling through John’s body, cold shivers suddenly trembled all down through his hands, eyes staring hard at the page. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all. He was really flushed with true, utter embarrassment.

He hadn’t been embarrassed for a long ass time and he sure as hell didn’t miss it.

Biting hard against his lower lip, Marston peered up to his side, noticing that Arthur was still resting placid. Nothing had changed, he was just in the same position as before, head still bobbing loose and his hat still casting a dim shadow over his handsome face.

Handsome..

John shook his head, hands tediously closing the journal and setting it aside in a soft patch a grass, knowing Arthur wouldn’t want it anywhere else, especially in John’s very own grubby clutch.

Knowing he’d have to brew some sort of lie to Pearson on not only why he doesn’t have the crate, but why it took him so damn long, John decided his time was up.

Releasing a hefty sigh from his core, he stood and looked down, a perfect bird’s eye view of Arthur. With a soft touch, his fingers grazed the man’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to talk to you more, Arthur. Shoulda said something other than havin’ that nose of yours stuck in that journal. You really are dumb, but I guess so am I,” his rough voice spoke out. A pause of silence mingled in the air, Arthur not replying whatsoever as that was the way it should be.

If only he had a little more courage.


	2. That Smell Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on my previous chapter, I cannot thank you all who commented, left kudos, and even viewed the story enough. Unfortunately, I don't have any specific song that I can think of that matches this chapter well, but I did listen to that Ambient Music again haha.
> 
> NOTE: Make note that Abigail and John aren't in a relationship and that Jack isn't in this alternative universe. Just thought I should make that clear!

After the impatient Mr. Pearson discovered Marston playing stupid as he returned to the workstation without the crate, not even a damn can of beans, he was questioned straight off the bat. He was questioned just like how he guessed he would be, molding into a suspect of wasting time under the cooks blunt inquires. He supposed he could’ve easily taken some cans out of the crate to place on a shelf by Pearson’s station, but that thought hadn’t even cracked until after the matter.

“I couldn’t find it,” was all John had to say in response, which only formulated a heavy, quick breath out of Mr. Pearson. Usually, the scolding he got spat back in his face from any camp member, except for Micah, would make John feel guilty, but this time was different. Not a shred or prick of regret crossed his mind. He was satisfied with what he had experienced. Nothing could or would change that.

“You couldn’ find it? It should be right behind there! It’s the only crate there is left, Marston. I should’ve just got it myself. Shit, even Kieran could’ve done that faster,” the older man wheezed, the blade of his butcher’s knife bending deep into the wooden table as he left.

Not before long, a grumbling, exhausted Arthur was stumbling around the campsite, hands rubbing against his sluggish eyes that were clouded with exhaustion. He didn’t look too pleased with being roused from his sleep and John couldn’t blame him, he’d probably still be bitching if he was Arthur, but yet the elder was moderately quiet as he was likely still a smidge whiskey influenced.

The younger girls in the Van der Linde camp snickered lightly when Arthur came up to speak to them, jokingly complaining that he woke up thinking he was going to a part of the stew after seeing all that blood on Mr. Pearson’s face. Oh, how they laughed at him. “ _Damn Arthur and his charm_ ,” John thought.

Charm...

Conflicted with his own thoughts, John still insisted himself to help prepare the rest of dinner with Mr. Pearson. He wasn’t doing it because he felt like he needed to raise his charisma back up with the cook, the route of the matter was to distract his mind from such.. abnormal thoughts.

Multiple times though he found himself studying the heavy-eyed man from afar, watching him conversate and laugh with the girls in spite of his eyes sporting dark circles beneath them.

John couldn’t help but look repeatedly out of the corner of his eye at Arthur. He genuinely couldn’t help it. It was like as if his eyes had a mind of their own. Perhaps they did, because all his mind was doing was reflecting deeply on the moment they just somewhat shared together.

 

* * *

 

It had been a week since that modest slice of heaven and John still couldn’t tame his thoughts about it all. No matter how hard he tried to hone in on work, chores, hunting, and whatnot, the thought of that damn journal entry, those flawless “sketches”, and flashbacks of the easing atmosphere in that moment still found themselves to linger behind the windows of his soul.

Now John was left to himself in the privacy of his personal tent on the strike of midnight, mind swarming like there was no tomorrow.

There was something lurking inside of Marston that he himself couldn’t even begin to bridle. There were plenty of thoughts, thoughts along the lines of affectionate interest in Arthur that seemed to have emerged like a wildfire that swallowed the endless fields of his thoughts, flaming down his veins and straight into the red blood fueling his heartbeat. There was a tingling feeling too, a sensation that shot shivers curling up and down the ridge of Marston’s spine, a feeling that he was beginning to like. This seemed to have happened every time he thought back to that day.

Although, there was a part of Marston that despised the way he was thinking because he didn’t understand, making him feel like a conflicted teenager all over again. He was puzzled on why Arthur had privately been showing interest in him, but John was even more perplexed on why his interest in the other was steadily growing the more and more he thought about that first internal question. Why had he never felt this way around women? What was the cause of all of this? What was so special about John that brought in Arthur’s attention enough to draw him like that? Most importantly, why did Arthur mention in his journal entry that John is _honestly_ someone Arthur needs in life at the moment? What the hell was that about?

Dammit.

John hated when he didn’t have the answers whether it came to plans, missions, reasonings, and most of all, feelings. It troubled him more than he thought it did.

Allowing a paltry sigh to exit through his nose as all those thoughts and feelings scrambled louder and louder, Marston’s shoulders tensed as he sat on the edge of his cot. Rough, his fingernails scraped crudely against the healing tissue on his left set of fingers, causing those nasty wounds he still held from that lost game of Five Finger Fillet to throb an irritated red.

He was tired of being confused, tired of not knowing what to do for the first time, and tired from literally staying up until past midnight. He was stressed, even some folk in the camp had begun to notice. He wasn’t stressed to the point where he was constantly miserable, but mentally strained all because of an interaction Arthur had no clue about.

How stupid.

Right at the edge of digging to break all the hard work the tissue had built on over the week, John stiffly paused at the sound of a low, friendly laugh that vibrated out somewhere near in the camp. He couldn’t help but smile. 

It was Arthur’s laugh, a laugh he had known ever since the start.

Listening for more, all that could be heard was the resonance of Dutch’s graphophone complemented by the distant shrill of cicadas, all muffled behind the thick sheets of fabric that made up his tent. It was enough to make him begin to feel a little drowsy, the sense of stillness reminding him once more of that perfect moment.

“ _It’s too late to be thinking about this stuff_ ,” he thought, pausing to shift his absent stare at the candle flickering its orange radiance beneath the black sky above. “ _Sleep, Marston, today was a long, stupid day. Just rest or else you’ll wind up getting an infection and then your whole arm would have to be chopped off just by your luck_."

Just when he was about to rearrange his pillow into a more comfortable, full fluff, a rustling noise of fabric crinkled right behind his head. He whipped his head back, meeting face to face with a just as startled Arthur.

John’s chest tightened.

“You scared the shit out of me, Arthur, damn. Next time maybe say you’re about to come in, I have my tent closed in for a reason you know,” Marston croaked out, eyes refusing to look at the other’s face for any longer than a second. He knew better than to do that to himself.

“My bad, you’re right, you’re right,” Morgan groaned out, the thick scent of whiskey and graphite suddenly dabbling into the air.

“ _Jesus, that smell again_ ,” he thought, swallowing thickly.

“Drinkin’ _again_ , Arthur?”

Arthur’s face twisted slightly, a hand of his rising to rub his forehead in contemplation before speaking back, “What?.. I drank a week ago but I thought I made that pretty private, did I stink that bad?”

Thank god it wasn’t daylight otherwise the sheer embarrassment would’ve been easy to read all across the younger one’s face. “Uhm..”

“Agh, forget about it, Marston.”

John then began to breathe again, just then registering he had been holding his breath.

“Alright then. What brings you here at you know, past midnight? I’m trying to sleep, you know, haven’t had the greatest schedule.”

“Me too, I know that feeling all too well.”

Silence then crept. Arthur’s larger figure swaying gently in the tent’s wide opening. The moonlight behind the man’s broad structure made thin, glistening silver highlights shimmer softly around his figure. It sent goosebumps down John’s arms. Was something wrong..?

“Can I come in, John?”

“What?”

“No- I..I mean, just to talk.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

John was clueless as to what the drunken man was going to say, even with the insight of that damned journal entry. There undoubtedly was no telling considering the fact Arthur was even more jittery than him, which was not the Arthur he typically knew.

Without the slightest shake of delay, the other side of John’s thin bed creaked beneath the new weight, shifting to compromise. Alike, Arthur’s prompt movements caused the candle’s luminescent flame to shake, the warm lights twisting and turning like dancing ribbons all along the innards of the tent.

“John, are you busy tomorrow morning?” Arthur asked, a slightly long lock of hair that cradled the side of his face shifting with his words.

The fervor in John’s chest melted hotter like wax set to the flame.

“I don’t believe so. Does Dutch have another train he wants to rob?”

That same old laugh crackled out like firecrackers, booming all throughout the tent as Arthur smiled wider than he really should’ve.

“No, no. I just wanted to know because, well. I found this nice little stream nearby and I think it would be nice to draw there with you. We haven’t had any alone time ever since our youth, so why not catch up on one another? I heard from Abigail that you’ve been scribbling on some scrap paper recently, so I’d assume you’d be interested in the drawing part of it. It’s alright if not, I underst-,” before Arthur could even finish his sentence, John expressed himself.

“Yes.”

They both stared at each other for a moment that felt like an eternity. Well, at least it did for John.

John stuttered like a wreck this time around, not as confident as he had been just a few seconds ago. Maybe it was a few minutes ago, John couldn’t answer that even if a gun was to his head. “I-I mean. I would like to do that, Arthur. I could, uh, learn a thing or two from the best. Hell, I can’t even draw a damn cow even if I had a whole day to work on it.”

The intoxicated Arthur somewhat grew suspicious of that specific remark, an eyebrow shrugging up before going on into questioning, “The best? Oh, I’m not sure about that. Where’d you get that idea from, Marston?”

The younger one’s hands twitched skittishly in his lap before dwindling down to his sides on the bed.

John hastily replied, “Hosea keeps talking about how good of an artist you are and you know for a fact that Hosea hasn’t lied a day in his life unless he was talking to the government that is.” 

That wasn’t a lie in itself. It was just missing a few elements that Arthur didn’t need to know about right this instant (or ever).

“Ohh, I see now. I thought you might’ve had a nosey in my journal when I wasn’t lookin’.” Suspicion immediately fled and drained down the hole, leaving John internally breathing out a sigh of relief. “Well, I should probably get to bed. I’m sorry to disturb you so damn late at night, jus’ didn’t have time during the day to invite.”

A small wash of guilt rubbed into John’s heart after hearing the small apology, immediately shaking his head to reassure that Arthur was fine. All he got in return was a measly nod before the weight on the bed lifted, returning to the state it was used to.

Arthur then loomed muted for a moment, his balance steadying before he began to paw off towards the exit, that damn smell catching John off guard.

“Hmph, I’ll see you in the morning then, John. I’m sorry again for disturbin’,” Arthur sniffed, kneading the tips of his fingers into the corners of his eyes tiredly. Through a yawn, he then continued, “9 then?”

“Sounds good to me. Get some sleep, Arthur, you look and sound like you haven’t slept in days.”

“You aren’t wrong about that. Alright, catch you later then.”

In the blink of a tired man’s eye, Arthur Morgan was no longer there, the door flap neatly placed shut once more, and the soft static chime of Dutch’s music coming back into focus.

Marston rubbed his shoulder with a deathly grip, his heart feeling heavier than usual and his throat hollow like a dead tree. There were no words to fill that tree, but plenty of overwhelment was there to fill the depths of his skull. His eyes were wide and his mouth was similarly agape, tongue dry too as he tried to snap out of it.

He should’ve been expecting something like this, but yet here he was. 

John Marston was utterly astonished like a goddamn fool.

Finally, after a long and hard moment of processing, he shook his head, stomach-churning backflips like was its destiny. 

Had he really just been invited on a miniature drawing date with Arthur Morgan? Guess so…

It didn’t take the eager man long to get comfortable in bed after hushing the candle out into a thin line of smoke with a suppressing puff. Bundling up beneath his only blanket, a thin one at most, Marston had buried his scarred cheek into his pillow without even caring that a delighted smile was already curling up his lips.

John Marston was happy.

That’s all that mattered.


	3. Perfect Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya :) Decided a longer chapter than normal would be best for this one, so buckle on up! I got a song suggestion this time which did inspire the atmosphere of this chapter. It's called Perfect Day from the Peter Rabbit Soundtrack. If you're interested, here's the youtube link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pM7Xwx6TiE Thank you for all who support this story too!

A stream of amber light unsheathed from the sky down upon the camp, shimmering life into every one of Mother Nature’s critters. Yes, even the sickest of critters.

John Marston loathed mornings with an undisputed nature, that was no question even to Mother Nature herself. If it were any other day and he had risen this early, he’d already have been a drifter in the sleep realm once more, but something different was cooking in his routine as there was something to actually look forward to. He understood that concept loud and clear the second he woke up.

At the crack of dawn, the cry of an ax splitting through a chunk of wood sent Marston buzzing awake, cedar orb’s dog-tired no matter what would be held in his future. Not only were his eyes bone dry because of his lack of sleep, but mainly due to the fact that he hadn’t ever woken up that early in all his years. But yet here he was, displayed beneath the rose gold sky all in the comforts of his “room” while a soft honey yellow painted thickly against his tent’s walls.

It all felt still and gentle, just like that day with the sleeping Arthur, also known as the same man that broke his seclusion last night drunkenly, inviting him on a miniature date that would be between the two of them. It made his heart pound louder than it should be allowed too, doubling when remembering he had a due date to be ready by.

“Nine then?” Morgan’s somber voice questioned in his head.

John’s mind couldn’t begin to embark on catching up with his feet as he was already standing, hands fidgeting for his pocket watch. Upon finding it and opening the scratched metal cover piece, the time nearly made his anxiety nearly bore a hole through his own being.

8:30 AM

“Shit,” he cursed louder than he had meant too.

“He’s probably ready and here you are, just now waking up. God dammit,” he grumbled to himself, urgently grabbing his usual set of clothes to wear.

As quick as a fox and with that troubling thought in mind, he started to get himself ready knowing the consequences and regret he’d face if he didn’t.

He couldn’t be late.

He couldn’t bear to miss this opportunity. Afte rall, this could be the only opportunity he has left to experience of that strange feeling again so there was no way in hell that he’d miss out on that, even if he was conflicted about the whole situation.

Right then and there was not the time to reflect on how confused he was but although, he was never like this, as in being skittish and excited for something as simple as hanging out with another. Usually Dutch would describe him as confident, overly brave, but now felt small and naive. He still didn’t understand that no matter how long or hard he thought about it…

John had to knock it off and get ready.

It only took a couple of minutes to get ready, having learned the skill of speed earlier of having to vanish from whoever alongside Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur more than he could count. Thankfully though, this time the government wasn’t the reason for putting him getting into gear.

After wiggling himself into a set of old, battered up clothes that ended up being hugged under that inky duster coat he always wore, he set into looking for the minimal materials he’d need to bring on this little “date”. Rifling his hands along a makeshift bedside table, he gathered his pencil, putty rubber, and most importantly a handmade journal made by Abigail. Even though it was barely holding together, consisting of old out of date documents and scraps of paper that had room to draw on, he still somehow managed to keep it together as he stuck it all in his satchel.

Checking his pocket watch once more, the bridge of his nose crumbled, leading him out into the open camp where everyone was minding their own business for once. Thank god. All John needed was Miss Grimshaw exclaiming how grotesque he looked or how he hasn’t been contributing as much.

“Hey, John. Right on time, that’s a first, ain’t it?”

Marston cocked his head to the side, nearly blinded by bliss that the glazed sun rained down upon, it’s allure casting streaks of marigold all throughout Arthur’s soft hair. The ball of fire melted into the pink sky even managed to curl up in those teal eyes of his, gold flecks burning within them like fire. It all made him feel weak.

John’s hands twisted into loose fists, knowing deep down in his mind that he couldn’t show any form of weakness even if no one else was paying attention.

“Arthur, you seem a lot better than last night,” he joked in reply, a hand coming up to scratch his face that purely was meant to hide his flushed smile.

“I did get some sleep after talking with you, so I’d hope I look as good as I feel.”

“Having troubles?”

“A bit. ‘Nough about me though, you still up for the date? Ah, not date. Y’know what I mean.”

Marston’s lips parted some, his tongue unable to move.

His heart was really made of clay considering how well the artist manipulated it so.

_Did he just..?_

“..John? You okay there?”

John shook his head fiercely, hat dipping down to shade the embarrassment plastered all over his face. “Yeah, I jus’ got sidetracked. I’m still up for it, are you?”

“Well, of course, I am! I’ve been waiting for you, thought you might show yourself a little earlier but I shoulda known better.”

“I guess you shoulda have,” he chuckled lightly in reply, turning the other way. It was all too much. As he began to trot towards the gather of hitched horses, his thoughts began to rattle.

How the hell was he going to survive for the rest of the time he had with Arthur? He can’t just hide his face the whole time or otherwise it’d be plain weird. Real weird.

“Oh yeah, uh, the stream ain’t too far from here. I don’t think we needa bring our horses along,” Arthur kindly called out behind, adjusting the brim of his gambler's hat to tip back a little, revealing more of that perfect face. Then he started up again, hands settling back down at his belt, “If that’s okay with you, Marston.”

“Alright. Let’s just hope we don’t get cornered by some desperate folk or god forbid, rained on. The clouds are looking a bit bigger today than usual and it seems a little windy,” John barked back

“Sounds to me like you’d rather get shot at. Don’t worry, John, the rain isn’t going to get that high for ya, but it may push you down,” Arthur teased, only attracting a glare out from the younger one. “Com’on now, I’ll lead the way.”

And then they were off, their boots trudging through all sorts of plant matter while they avoided low hanging limbs and what not. Some small talk rambled between the two of them, but nothing filled with any relevance or importance. It was all just short conversations either about how they slept or how the weather was doing. Really, nothing important, but what was important was that Arthur wasn’t wrong about the stream being not far off from their campsite, finding themselves beginning to approach their mystical, closed off destination shortly.

The secluded opening was made up of firm sand broken up by furry bits of moss with tall strands of grass sprouting in between, all laid in front of a resting, pretty little stream, a rivulet at most. While it was definitely minuscule, it was large enough for the two of them to sit. The water was crystal clear, John being able to make out all of the different colored rocks scattered beneath its surface, shells glinting too as they were dispersed randomly by Mother Nature’s touch. It was really a perfect spot to simmer down in and find a moment of serenity.

He loved this already.

“This it?” John questioned. Without caring for a reply just yet, he was already traveling down into the bubble of paradise to the point where the point of his boots skimmed the edge of the shore, eyes scanning the water quietly.

“Sure is. We can move to another spot if you want, jus’ thought this was nice.”

“No, it’s great. It definitely is nice. How’d you find this anyway?”

Arthur then scratched the back of his neck through a gloved hand, eyes trailing away as he settled himself into the sand. “I’ve known about this place for years. It’s kinda my little spot I go to when I’m stressed an’ upset,” he softly murmured, but loud enough for John to pick up on.

“Ah… I see. It’s a good spot for that,” he replied, gaining a short nod back. Swiveling quietly on heel to turn, he went to perch down alongside the man, wondering what got Arthur to be so soft. Had he hit a touchy subject by mistake?

That didn’t seem to matter as the other was already shrugging off his satchel, plopping that journal down onto his thighs with a pencil clattering against the leather. His legs were outstretched wide and flat, very contrasting to the younger of the two as he was more closed in on himself, knees dug into the sand and legs squashed beneath his own weight. At least Arthur was comfortable.

Hesitant, John pulled out his own journal, it’s uneven papers sticking out wild in the same way the sewing thread loosely bound it all together, a cover not even being existent in the first place. Just what he was afraid of, Arthur cackled at the damned sight, making John hit him roughly in the shoulder with a closed fist. “Shut it, Arthur. Abigail whipped it together for me.”

“I thought maybe you’d at least have a sketchbook, sorry, I jus’ wasn’t expecting _that_ ,” Arthur spat innocently out between his dying out laughter, head turning back to his own business.

Marson’s eyebrows furrowed while pretending like he was pestered, his delighted smile smearing all across his dumb face not pairing with that at all. “I haven’ had the time or money to go to town and get myself a fancy one like that. Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to look.”

“I understand, Marston. Just givin’ you shit.”

“You always are.” Keeping that smile on his face while starting to finally cool down, he flipped through his journal to find a fresh spot to get started on a new sketch. He wasn’t blessed with talent at all and that was obvious from the evidence on crumbled pieces of papers, but it was somewhat clear that he really did try his hardest. Besides, he only started recently, only a week ago at most. He was nowhere close to being creative. Shit for brains.

The grainy, yet gentle noise of graphite dragging along the rough textured paper abruptly began to sing out from Arthur’s journal as he was already drawing, laying out the basic shapes of the stream in front of himself. Every line he made was extremely light and thin, not making any rash decisions at first. John mentally took notes, silently watching from the corners of his eyes instead of doing his own thing.

“So, John. When did you start drawing? Abigail told me that she noticed you picking it up really recently,” Arthur said, eyes never leaving the page unless it was to study the divine scenery once more. “Just starting?”

“Yeah, I um.. Not sure what got me started, and I sure as hell ain’t good at it, but I like how I can put my thoughts down onto paper without using words. I don’t think that makes any sense.”

“No, that’s what drawing is. As long as you get some enjoyment or fulfillment out of doing it, it don’t matter what it looks like. At least that’s how I see it.”

“Huh.. Never thought about that.”

“I don’t think a lot of people think about that. Anyway, what do you draw?”

John paused, his eyes tying back down onto the blank sheet of paper that was nothing but the backing to a note about an expired stagecoach to rob. He thought for a second, not really having an answer. “I guess just things?”

“Things?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, still life?”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

John didn’t understand this art talk at all and didn’t care much for it neither as he much rather preferred to admire Arthur do his magic as an alternative. After not having looked at the other’s drawing for such the smallest of moment’s worth, the scene was already beginning to paint itself beneath the blunt tip of the pencil. It was really amazing the way he could do it so fast. It really made him wonder how many times Arthur had drawn this exact view.

A few moments passed and John huffed out a sigh of defeat. “Don’t even know what to draw,” he grumbled, placing his journal off to the side on the dry, gritty sand.

Arthur’s winsome eyes peered up into his own at that statement, giving a soft presupposing, narrowed look. Gesturing outwards, he suggested, “maybe you can find something? I take it that scenery is not one of your ‘things’, huh?”

John nodded, planting his feet into the ground and stemming up from there. “Maybe,” he replied in that same old rough voice, making him sound ten times older than what he actually was.

“Don’t get to close to the water, now,” Arthur jokingly taunted, his intent pure.

“Oh shut up, Arthur,” Marston bickered back.

“I’m just looking out for you, John”

A deep exhale left John as he rounded his back towards the other, his soot unkempt hair cascading as his eyes fluttered down. At last, some time to hide his face that had probably been tomato red after the very first second he saw Arthur that morning. Everything felt so hot and sticky to his skin, but yet the forest was fresher than a rose.

It was that feeling again.

_I’m just looking out for you, John_

Swallowing back a thick wad of tension building up in his stomach, he began to scavenge around the area he’d soon come familiar with. Keen with his eyes and beginning to crouch low to the ground, he began to store a small collection of pretty little shells or uniquely shaped rocks in the palm of his hand, the hoard gradually growing with each step.

It was enough to keep him busy from thinking about that sentence.

Suddenly though, a sharp crystal shape caught him off guard, it’s translucent sheen winking through the glister water. His hand dove swiftly, prying the long object out and into the now clouded sunlight. Focusing on what it was, it was an old, empty bottle of bourbon, likely a couple months old judging how tucked under it was. Hell, it was likely to be from one of Arthur’s stressful nights.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed something clinging inside, it’s webbed toes holding onto the glass for dear life. It was the smallest frog John had ever seen and it made him laugh in a peculiar way.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Arthur questioned, still in the same spot as before.

“I think I found what I want to draw,” John replied with a hint of a smile tugging through his husky voice. Carefully working the delicate creature out and onto the pile of shells in his other hand, he rested the bottle back down onto the ground, not caring much for it anymore. Polite, the frog sat there without no issue.

Fast, but still vigilant, Marston returned alongside Arthur, revealing the amphibian. Its eyes unevenly bubbled under, but instantaneously popping back up, making Arthur grin.

Arthur closed his journal before intricately transporting the frail friend onto the cover, the small being turning around to face them. Now Arthur and John were both smiling like fools, all while being dead silent.

Unanticipated, the frog then turned away. On edge, the two of them tipped in a bit closer, curious like children. Before they could even catch up, it’s fragile legs twitched and then it bounded off, skipping towards the stream until the smallest of splashes broke the water. An eruption of laugher bursted, vibrating the perfect day.

 

* * *

  
A minute turned into half an hour, half an hour into an hour, an hour into several, and several into the evening, but yet it all felt like a minute.

After the encounter with the frog that had basically broken the awkwardness between themselves, John Marston and Arthur Morgan found themselves busy in conversation. Whether they grumbled discussions about upcoming missions Dutch had blabbed about, crying with laughter while recalling stories from their youth, or sillily dreaming about the future, John loved every second of it. He couldn’t get enough and neither could Arthur.

If only the day couldn’t come to an end.

It was just a perfect day.

Snickering at some dumb, yet a very literal impression of Dutch Van der Linde, a small plop of wetness hit the tip of Marston’s nose, eyes batting of instinct. Cranking his head back for his nose to point to the sky, another drop clipped down on his scarred cheek this time. Looking over, Arthur was doing the same.

John was gawking without shame.

“Looks like Dutch’s way of tellin’ us we better wrap it up,” Morgan remarked. Wasting no time to crumple all his things back up into his satchel, he stood while Marston did just the same with his own valuables. “I guess you were right. Who knew John Marston himself had a brain.”

“Oh, this again? Now you’re just asking for it, old man. Let’s see if your still as fast, huh?”

“Hey, what the hell’s that suppos’ta mean?”

John took a step closer, tugging the brim Arthur’s hat down to smush over that damn sneer. “It means it’s a race, old man,” he whispered, beaming with energy. Without being questioned, he took off faster than a jackrabbit hightailed by a coyote. All John heard then was a small, “hey!” and then a roaring, “ **Greasy Johnny Marston!** ”

That warm, floaty, tingling feeling was more intense than ever, but yet Marston was still managing to dart through the thickets, rain pouring buckets over his head. It was the best feeling ever.

If it were even possible at that point, the feeling quadrupled the moment he was roughly pushed into the wet, muddy floor, Arthur Morgan heaving over his body with significant strength. John’s heart flared before daring to look over his shoulder with dilated eyes blown wide.

Time stopped.

Arthur had him pinned, damp locks of ruffled hair dripping down onto his face with a thick chest huffing and puffing like insanity. From the feral look spinning in the other’s hues to the way the dark corners of his lips were pinched up down to his hands on either side of John’s head, it all made John explode with love.

Dammit.

He had fallen in love with Arthur.

To put it in better words, he loved Arthur Morgan.


	4. Limit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There are brief mentions of abuse and trauma in this chapter.
> 
> I surely hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. I found myself having quite a lot of trouble writing this, but I've finally come to the point where I think this is worth publishing. Again, thank you for all your feedback in the comments, it means a lot to me :)

But… Why?

Why was he in love?

John’s sanity began to spiral, his fate sealing shut tighter and tighter the deeper he fell into those tigerish set of eyes burrowing him down into the earth’s core. It nearly looked like Arthur was inspecting every centimeter of John’s being and he loved it. He loved everything about that moment. From the hot breath Arthur heaved over his face, the way he had him cornered, and even to the way that neither of them gave a shit about their surroundings or positions. John cherished it all while he could, unknowing if this point in history would ever repeat itself. Although, something caught him off guard. For just a split moment, his eyes caught movement breaking on Arthur’s lips, watching him bite down and slither a tongue over them for just a moment.

That was John’s limit. They both knew that rightfully well.

Their lips crumbled up against one another in a sloppy fashion, lids crushing shut as they embraced one another beneath the plummeting rain. John senses flickered as he heard a rustled movement fumble right next to his head, but was immediately relaxed to realize that it was only one of Arthur’s muddy hands squirming it’s way up into the repugnant, greasy mop that was John’s hair. He could’ve sworn he felt a smile linger in their long kiss when he cradled his head up against that very touch. It made him smile too.

They were a goddamn mess.

If anyone happened to stumble across these two fools kissing each other in a thick puddle of mud beneath a babbling thunderstorm they would have assumed the couple had gone nuts. Frankly, that wasn’t too far from the truth, at least that’s what John thought to himself.

Well thick into the rough, uneven patterns of their kiss that simply didn’t have a speck of rhythm, Marston’s thoughts began to get the best of him. This time though, his thoughts seemed to be a little more haunting than usual, sounding more like an inner demon than himself.

_ You do not deserve this, John Marston. You do not deserve to feel this sort of pleasure when you don’t even know where to start on comprehending your feelings, you dumbass. What will everyone back at camp think of you, you fool? They’ll probably wonder how you managed to get even more disgusting, huh? When they see you again, they’ll think back to when you ran away the first time, wishing that you had never slithered back like the slimy, selfish snake you are. Why don’t you think before you act for once? **Why don’t you think, you shit!?** _

A pounding burden thrashed around in John’s head as the demonic voice yapped, eyebrows furrowing enough to where the dark creases stressed his complexion. As much as he tried to ignore the figment of his imagination, it wouldn’t fade. It kept preaching in his skull in a similar tone that Dutch Van der Linde would have when seeking to inspire his gang. Funny enough, similar to how Dutch’s speeches always went, this voice manipulated its slimy way to get to his head too. He believed every word spat on his brain.

_ Do yourself, the gang, and Arthur Morgan a favor. Run. It’s time to run away, John, but this time you aren’t going to look back, you damn coward. You’ve done enough damage and the last thing any of them need is any more. You’re what’s bringing them down, you greasy varmint. Run. Run now, dammit! **GO!** _

A blinding, crooked steak of light exploded through the sky above, followed by a punishing crack that whipped the land’s back as if it were a stubborn steed. It was enough to rip John out from his thoughts as he physically jolted back into the cruel face of reality. Unfortunately, it was nowhere close to fixing his poor mental stability.   
They were still connected by the bounds of an inexperienced, chapped kiss. John had to do something, fast.

The younger broke the kiss rough and abrupt, eyes opening wide, and body beginning to tremble out of sheer fear. He was afraid of what he was feeling and afraid of what was bound to happen from his actions. Was he going to be yelled at, hit, looked down upon? He didn’t know. All he knew was that their lips were no longer sharing the fond comfort of one another.

Arthur’s eyes snapped open, his careful clutch in the other’s hair loosening as a pained look drained every bit of happiness from his soul. He looked hurt and it especially showed in his voice when he went along to speak first, “John… Are you okay? I’m sorry if this disturbed you, I-uhm... I-I didn’ mean to-”

“Get off of me,” rasped John, his eyes giving an intimidating, warning glare towards Arthur. It shut him up fast.

But… Arthur failed to move.

“Arthur, goddammit, are you even listening to me? I thought I said get off!”

Soon enough, the weight of the pigheaded outlaw was out of his hair and now stood a few steps back, obeying to the boy’s wishes. “‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, John, I completely understand,” he murmured, his eyes more interested in anywhere else but him.

All huffy, Marston stood up as well, hands beginning to wipe off some of the mud, junction of the rain. Supposedly he was trying to find something that could help him cope, but he couldn’t tell if it was working as he didn’t know if it were rain or tears streaking his face.

Nervous will all sorts of feelings brewing in the pot of his hollow heart, he somehow found the courage to look back at Arthur’s face.

Dammit. He must’ve been crying from the grief-stricken look intensifying on Arthur’s face.

The older one’s body twitched, arms extending a smidge before tightening back down at his sides, closed, shakey fists replacing his sedimental, loving hands that they once were. John could’ve sworn it looked like the man was eager to embrace him in a comforting hug, but then he realized.

Arthur was afraid of him.

Shattered and broken like an empty glass bottle of bourbon thrown into a stream with a little more force than needed could poetically describe the way John felt, but there was nothing beautiful or charming about this. He cried hard. So hard. Tears were leaking through his eyes harder than ever and no plug was big enough to hold them back. Just like a child.

He was conflicted and overwhelmed, those hellish thoughts echoing even in the nooks and crannies of his being, no part of him doubting it even for a second. Hell, how could he doubt it when the voice even knew that John didn’t know how to comprehend feelings. He had no idea why he had fallen in love with Arthur, but all he knew was that it was wrong.

Very wrong.

What was nearly as wrong as his love for Arthur was the consoling arms wrapping around his sickened shell of a soul. He guessed Arthur couldn’t help himself, always being one to feel like it was his responsibility to comfort those in a different state of mind. It had always been something John admired about him, but now, it made him feel torn.

_ Why aren’t you running already!? You’ve had the time to go, but now you’re just wasting his and your own time. **Fucking run already!** _

John didn’t even remember yanking himself out of Arthur’s affectionate whispers that he didn’t catch one word of as he was already sprinting through the woodlands, his destination no longer being that of the gang’s campsite. In spite of the harsh yowling wailing out from Arthur calling his name over and over, John’s legs only carried him faster. He had to get away. He didn’t care where he’d end up. All he wanted is to escape...again.

Running away was something very familiar to John’s heart as the last time he ran away was no more than a few years ago. It had been too long to remember the exact details as he always tended to avoid thinking or conversing about it, but now it was rounding back to slap him right across his scarred face.

Memories of Dutch shoving him into a lake and attempting to drown him after screwing up a robbery for the whole gang was all that was on John’s mind now. No one ever understood why his mistake made Dutch snap that hard, not even the victim himself, but ever since then the tension between the two has been strained and stressed, waiting to break for a second time.

The reason behind his return was out of pure selfishness, not being able to survive out on his own without the assistance of family. He had to admit, it was very petty of him, but John Marston was a fool, he always had been.

John forced himself to stick through when he had returned, even though he had been tired of living up to the Dutch’s expectations even if he did save his life in his childhood days. Alas, being saved from being killed didn’t make up for all of the trauma he’s been put through by the man with slick black hair and a fancy attire that could buy the whole camp food for months. No one knew the type of situations John had suffered mentally and physically from, other than the attempted drowning incident. No one ever offered to ask, not even Arthur. That was the root of why John ran away the first time.

Although, John wasn’t so sure if he’d ever be around Dutch again to allow another traumatizing moment haunt his sleep, considering he was planning on never making a return after what his apparent instincts had told him. Sure, at some point he’d have to go stealth within the camp, retrieve his possessions, ride out on his horse, but he wasn’t thinking about that now. Now he was thinking about merely finding a place to take shelter. Nothing more, nothing less.

Racing through the bulbous trunks of trees and climbing through or over fallen ones, Marston could’ve sworn he heard the man racing at his tail. He didn’t doubt it if Arthur was, but he was not willing to take any chance to look back and bust his ass on some twig. He’d just have to tire him out until he learned acceptance.

“ _Easy ‘nough. Done it once, can surely do it twice_ ,” John thought to himself, his pace accelerating without missing a beat.

Nearing a wide forest glade that was separated in two by a fence likely hugging a ranch’s property, time felt like it had slowed down as a tight restraint constricted around John’s ankles, bringing him straight to the ground. A loud yelp choked through as his chin hit the hard grass, nearly biting off his tongue as he felt his body being drawn in from behind.

Was this _really_ necessary?

John was set into a pure rage, face in the grass, trying to thrash around as much as possible when he felt his wrists being tied up behind his back.

“Goddammit, Arthur! Let me go! What the hell is this all for!? I’m my own man and I can choose what I want to do!” He yelled out, voice gruff and husky, ignited by a fit of rage.

A rough hand then grabbed his shoulder, turning him around to be met face to face with an ill-tempered Arthur Morgan.

John’s face went pale, heart mushing into a pulp in the bottom of his stomach at the sight.

This was not Arthur. This was someone else… Someone he’s never seen before.

The last thing he could recall was the butt of the stranger’s pistol raising, a ghoulish laugh muffled beneath the rain, and a swollen pain spiking hard against his forehead.

Screams swathed and enveloped quiet pounded through John’s head, the cloaked noise of unclear men yelling at one another not helping in the slightest. Stowed onto the back of a stead releasing reckless neighs and huffs, he couldn’t find the strength to move or yell. He was paralyzed into a not so pleasurable silence.

John was vulnerable, weak, and pathetic. He was a pathetic fool, he knew that already.

Blurry azure and emerald colors warped through his line of vision, vague shapes twisting around his spinning head as the steed began to gallop. The faster the horse went, the more occasional flashes of amber light burst outwards, followed by the ruckus of explosions whizzing past his ears left and right.

A loud groan moped out from John as he and his new captor rode, but as expected, he was silenced by another blow to the face.

That one knocked him out for good.

 

* * *

 

A mushy warmth greeted John with open arms the moment he roused, welcomed back into life with a toasty quilt tucked around his body like a cacoon paired with the radiance of a fireplace popping nearby. Hazed by the damage done to him earlier, everything was still blurry, but that didn’t stop him from attempting to inspect the unfamiliar surroundings.

It seemed as if he were in a master bedroom to a wealthy, tidy house. There were a couple of frames on the wall containing pictures he wasn’t able to make out just yet, a long mirror leaning against a wall, and a couple of other furniture items suited for a bedroom that was this expensive looking. It confused John.

Taking in a big drag of air, his eyes boggled into complete focus. That smell… Graphite and whiskey (and a little bit of soap this time), the two smells combined that had him hooked ever since that peaceful day with Arthur.

_ Arthur. _

Looking around, eager for any sort of sighting of the man, a gentle creak of a rocking chair groaned out from the corner of the room. His eyes snapped that way, seeing a sight that emptied every bit of tension laced in his muscles. There was Arthur Morgan, knee high deep in dreams while he rocked gradually, as silent as the first time John caught him asleep. The man’s hair was fluffy and not a trace of grime could be spotted on his person, a look of his that was rarely seen but definitely a look that John adored. It all was serene, including the way the glowing light of the fire flickered against his face.

A smile found its way onto John’s lips and before he could look any further at the sleeping man, he dozed off himself.


End file.
